


The Starks Can't Save You

by IronBitch35730 (Ayita35730)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Depression, Everyone on this show has PTSD, F/F, F/M, Fuck Ramsay Bolton, Fuck The Red Wedding, I will not have this in my house, Jon Snow is tired, Jon Snow knows something, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Jon Snow, Protective Robb Stark, Protective Sansa Stark, Ramsay is his own warning, Robb Stark is a Gift, Robb Stark is alive, Sansa Stark is Queen of Everything, Self Harm, Stark family love, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Theon needs a hug, Theon-centric, Yara is Concerned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayita35730/pseuds/IronBitch35730
Summary: Canon Divergence AU:"You think you can save him, but you can't.""Perhaps. But by the gods, I swear to you if I cannot save him, I will avenge him."Theon saved Sansa from her wedding night, at great cost to himself. She in turn takes him to the Wall, fearing for his life and his mind, but when she arrives she finds not only one brother back from the dead, but two. No one has escaped the game unscathed, and even family cannot mend everything that's broken.And nothing may able to mend Theon, but they try.





	1. Where No Gods Dwell

**Author's Note:**

> Yes Robb is alive, yes he is pissed at Theon but he loves Theon too. This will be some angsty shit with very dark themes but no further Stark (nor Greyjoy) deaths and all the Starks (sans Catelyn and Ned) will be reunited.

Madness has a certain effect on the eyes. 

 

Sansa Stark discovered this when engaged to Joffrey Baratheon. In all appearances, he was perfectly suitable, a prince, a perfect match. But she was too young and inexperienced to notice the lapses in his personality, the moments where his mother was absent and bouts of cruel fancy would spring up in his behavior. She had no way of understanding that his too bright eyes were misleading, masking a darkness few anticipated. They dazed and distracted, lulling her into a false sense of security, one she couldn’t see through until she saw the crown upon his head. 

 

Now again she can see the fatal gleam, this time in the eyes of Ramsay Bolton, her new husband. And again, she’s too late to recognize it. A cruel fate, to escape one madman only to wed another. 

 

He guides her towards his— _ their _ room, and she cringes with every step, despising the eager bounce in the bastard’s stride. The moment those cursed vows left her lips his pretenses fell, his harmless, mildly smitten persona crumbling into dust the moment he knew she had nowhere and no one to run to. She is Lady Bolton now, and her new recognition of his unhinged smile and eerily soft voice come too late to do anything but bring her more dread. 

 

Theon’s hobbled steps behind them do nothing to ease her fear. If anything, his mere presence only encourages the darkest of her musings, a voice (Cersei Lannister’s voice. It will always be her voice) taunting her with the question she’d been so foolishly avoiding before: what kind of monster could transform Theon—proud, stupid,  _ strong _ Theon, into nothing more than a shadow? 

 

_ And what will he do to you, stupid girl? _

 

Cersei’s spectre hisses the words with such venom, such contempt, Sansa almost believes it is the woman herself and not her figment wreaking chaos in Sansa’s mind. But the feeling of shame the memory of Cersei inflicts, the poisonous tinge to her tone strikes Sansa with a bizarre and deeply disturbed pang of longing. 

 

She barely resists the hysterical laughter that stirs as she ponders exactly which of the seven hells one must reside in order to  _ miss _ Cersei Lannister. 

 

Another glance at her  _ husband _ , and his cold, predatory expression, and she concludes the thought likely isn’t far from the truth. Ramsay’s grip grows more insistent on her hip as they arrive at the threshold, and he simply shoves her through the door, his gentle farce long since ended.

 

He’s speaking to her now, his voice low and confident, but the words are lost on her. A haze has begun to settle around Sansa, muddling reality. She’s unsure whether this is a manifestation of her own fear, attempting to shelter her from what is happening, or if her sanity has actually begun to fracture. Either way, Ramsay continues, Sansa numbly witnessing him push her over the bed, feeling the ghost of his hands tearing at her wedding dress, running down her back. She can hear Ramsay order Theon to stay, and the even the stab of shame and disgust the words trigger can’t quite reach her. 

 

She feels mildly betrayed though, at the echo of disappointment that courses through her when Theon obeys. Yet the feeling isn’t directed at him, it's at herself, for apparently she hasn’t completely destroyed her childish notions of protection, of rescue, as she thought she had.

 

She certainly should accept by now that no one can protect her, they never have been able to before and Theon certainly cannot protect her from Ramsay now.

 

Theon couldn’t even protect himself from Ramsay, how could he save her from the same fate? Her only protection is this emptiness, this fog disrupting her consciousness. 

 

Until Theon speaks, and rips it away from her.

 

“Please Master, wait.” 

 

Three words. Barely audible, but heavy enough to shatter her fragile shield, and tear her ruthlessly and painfully back into reality. Sensation bleeds into her perception with frightening intensity, as if compensating for her previous distance. Ramsay’s touch  _ burns _ her skin, his wet and weighted breath crawling down her neck, and it's all she can do not to be sick if only because she is sure Ramsay would strangle her for such an action, or worse.

 

Most certainly worse.

 

But Ramsay has lost interest in her. The same words that tore her brutally into awareness have stolen his focus, his hands leaving her body, and his arrogant, pleased demeanor evaporating. He steps away from her without the slightest sign of reluctance, his newfound rage palpable in the air as he directs his full attention towards the toy he’s much more familiar with.

 

“Oh  _ Reek _ . Stupid, useless Reek.” Ramsay purrs patronizingly, as if scolding a child. But a promise of pain rings in every syllable, and the sound unsettles her deeply—she can only imagine how it affects Theon, considering they are actually directed at him.

 

As if to punctuate her returned cognisance, the thought of Theon crushes in her a wave of guilt and relief. 

 

Despite his sins against her and her family, she has known Theon for years, and she’s well aware what his action means. He cannot free her from the situation, cannot help her escape unscathed, but even though he’s arguably in a worse position than she is, he is attempting to buy her some time, at what is almost certainly going to be great expense to his own person. And that is where the relief intermingles with guilt—she feels entitled to his sacrifice in some way. She shouldn't feel guilty for it considering Theon murdered her brothers. She  _ should _ enjoy his suffering as she’s attempted to do since the moment she returned to Winterfell.

 

But she quickly dismisses that part of her and its reasoning, because it is that very vindictiveness that caused her to miss Theon’s warnings to begin with. Instead, she allows herself to feel grateful for him, to feel pity for the pain he’s already endured and what he will certainly endure for his interference. 

 

She’d like to think her mother would be proud of her for it.

 

But even with her acknowledgement of her better angels, she outright refuses to recognize the small sliver of hope still lingering like sickness in her heart. It is the remnants of a childish sense of order, an outdated, naive instinct of a little girl who always felt safe with Theon Greyjoy.  

 

The woman she’s become isn’t even completely sure he still  _ is _ Theon Greyjoy, underneath all that fear. 

 

“Come on Reek, speak up. What is so important that you would have the audacity to address me without permission, like a man? We know better than that, don’t we? You aren’t a man Reek, you aren’t even a bitch. What are you Reek?” Ramsay questions, his tone outwardly indulgent but still impatient.

 

Theon stares resolutely at the floor, his hands glued to his sides, but she can still see them tremble at every one of Ramsay’s words as if he’s being physically struck with every utterance. 

 

“Nothing, Master.”

 

Ramsay smiles brightly at that, and Sansa thinks Joffrey's deranged smirks looked downright charming in comparison.

 

“Hmm. Well it seems you remember that, yet you dared to speak as if you thought you were Theon once again. So tell me Reek, what exactly is so important you forgot your place? Did you want to join in?” He steps closer to Theon then, as if he will lunge, but instead stage whispers into Theon’s ear purposely still loud enough so she may hear. “That might be a bit difficult with your... problem.” He chuckles at his own sick humor, before continuing, his tone dripping with malice. “I suppose you could just be jealous. Sansa Stark is a beautiful woman. Tell me, are you jealous of your  _ Master _ , Reek?”

 

Sansa may not know Ramsay, but she’s been the target of enough of Joffrey's fits to hear the threat in such a question. If Theon answers the wrong way, it will result in a great deal of pain for the both of them, and quite possibly a worse fate then she would have faced should he have not intervened. 

 

Sansa wants to scream as she prays that for once, Theon Greyjoy won’t say the wrong thing. 

 

Except her prayers seem unnecessary. Though Ramsay towers in front of Theon now, his mere presence demanding a response, Theon doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he turns his eyes towards where she remains cowering by the bed, attempting to hold the pieces of her ruined dress in such a way to preserve at least some of her modesty. Her cheeks stupidly heat at how exposed she feels in front of him, still embarrassed despite the absurdity of that in this situation. But that notion is forgotten the moment she actually meets his gaze because—

 

By the gods, Sansa doesn’t know those eyes. 

 

_ Did you ever? _ Cersei taunts, but her words are easily drowned out this time, lost in the overwhelming shock and disbelief screaming at Sansa to turn away. 

 

Because she knows that gaze cannot belong to Theon Greyjoy, cannot belong to the man Robb once called brother. 

 

Hopelessness and pain smother him like shrouds, and should he lie still, she thinks he’d  indeed look the part of a corpse. The brilliant blue of his eyes that once glinted with mischief and pride now appear murky and grey, as if Theon has drowned in the depths of his own mind—a cruel and ironic mimicry of his chosen god. Agony is etched deep into his features, apparent in every inch of his once carefree counternace. She sees no strength in him, no anger, no fragments of faith. At most she sees some sort of acceptance, which makes it all the more tragic. Such eyes don’t belong on a Ironborn heir, they belong on a slave, on a man condemned. 

 

She cannot hold back a whimper when she remembers those very eyes staring back at her from her father’s face, just before the executioner's blade fell.

 

She wonders if Robb wore them as well, when the knife pierced his heart. 

 

She violently wishes to turn away, to deny the truth, but it is that thought of her family that restrains her. Sansa will not refuse Theon now, not in this miserable moment, not in the face of his desperation. His eyes are frantically searching her, and while she cannot fathom what answers he believes he’ll find in her, when she’s been lost herself since it all began, she won’t scorn him now. She cannot find it anywhere in herself in the face of pain that potent, to be cruel to him.

Her father would want better from her and she certainly wants better from herself. 

 

But as she wars with herself, her buried kindness defeating with ease the resentment she’s clung to with such ferocity, something changes in Theon. A calm sweeps over him, stilling his trembling hands and somehow even easing her own shaking a bit. There’s the faintest gleam in his eyes, something odd she doesn’t recognize. Then as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes, and with it, all signs of life in him. 

 

The emptiness is even worse than the pain, and Sansa reels. She cannot quite understand how, but she recognizes his sudden shift as a goodbye, and isn’t prepared for the devastation that realization brings.

 

Tears spring to her eyes, and she prays to and curses the gods at once. Damn honor, damn justice, damn betrayal—Sansa has witnessed too many goodbyes in her short life to approve of anything Theon’s could entail. She doesn’t care it he did betray them, or if whatever he’s planning is some attempt on his part to make amends, even if it is for her benefit. She doesn’t want anything that results in her losing him.

 

She’s lost too much already. 

 

She desperately tries to catch his attention, but as she suspected he would, Theon ignores her, looking back at the ground. He won’t risk looking any longer and drawing Ramsay’s attention back towards her, and he won’t face her silent pleas. He won’t relent on whatever it is she just watched him resolve, and now she is helpless to intervene. 

 

Theon slowly steps towards Ramsay, clasping his hands behind his back. Ramsay watches him warily, obviously curious as to Theon’s actions but still distrustful of the man himself. She wonders briefly, if Theon is going to attempt to attack him while he’s unsuspecting.

But Theon drops to his knees at Ramsay’s feet, his head tilted down submissively, and whispers “Jealous of her, Master.”

 

Sansa’s heart stops. 

 

Her thoughts stop. 

 

Everything stops because she cannot possibly process the meaning in those words. What Theon is implying, what  _ that _ would imply. In her wildest nightmares she couldn’t have crafted such an abhorrent punishment, nor could she ever envision Theon asking for it for anyone’s sake, much less her own. She must be misunderstanding, the stress has to be clouding her mind—

 

There’s no misunderstanding the complete and utter delight on Ramsay Bolton’s face. 

 

He stares at Theon, shellshocked as Sansa herself for a moment before he almost tentatively tangles a hand in Theon’s hair, gasping gleefully when Theon does not flinch away, but  _ leans _ into the touch and closes his eyes.

 

Sansa’s legs go weak underneath her and before she can steady herself she crashes to the ground, the pieces of her dress falling apart at the impact.

 

Ramsay doesn’t even register the noise she makes as she falls, nothing existing to him outside the broken man at his feet. His countenance is painted with a disturbing mixture of joy, smugness, and disbelief, as if he has impressed even himself with just how completely he’s destroyed Theon.

 

“Oh  _ pet _ …” Ramsay drawls, stroking Theon’s cheek in faux affection. Though Sansa can’t even be sure it’s completely false. She can’t be sure Ramsay doesn’t believe himself fond of Theon in some twisted way, a psychotic fantasy amidst his obsession, or if  he’s simply drunk off the power he has over the man. 

 

“Reek, you do surprise me,” he whispers. “Here I was beginning to worry this was the one thing I couldn’t get from you, despite my glorious work. I wanted it, but I didn’t quite understand how much more…  _ satisfying  _ it is to have you ask me for this. To want this.”

 

The gravity of those words are almost lost on Sansa in her shock, but once she registers their meaning she can’t fight the sudden, terrifying understanding they bring. 

 

Theon knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn’t a gamble, it was calculated. 

 

Ramsay has...gods...Ramsay has raped Theon. 

 

And Ramsay said that wasn’t  _ enough _ . He wants, has been  _ waiting _ for Theon to ask for it. The logic there, it horrifies her, but she cannot stop herself from attempting to track his thoughts. Ramsay wanted this because now, he’ll  own every piece of Theon. Of course Ramsay would see it as the ultimate power trip to have the man whom he has broken in every other way willingly  _ hand _ Ramsay the last scrap of himself, the only thing he’s managed to protect. It’s the perfect victory in Ramsay’s demented game. 

 

And Theon, as lost and weak as he has been, has still resisted giving Ramsay that. 

 

Until now. Until her. 

 

Ramsay seems to stumble upon this conclusion just as she does, and glances back at her briefly, for the first time in the entire encounter recalling her presence. And if she has read every book in all the kingdoms, in every land, she wouldn’t find a word closer his expression than soulless.

“Perhaps I should have gotten a wife sooner.” He chuckles darkly, and then looks back to Theon, nudging him downwards. “Go on then pet. Ask me.” Theon doesn’t hesitate, shifting from a kneel to a bow with little grace and placing a kiss on Ramsay’s bloodstained boot. 

 

“Please Master. I want this. I want you. Anything you wish, I am yours, I beg of you.” There’s nothing left in his voice now, nothing to show her the slightest sign Theon hasn’t left her alone here after all. 

 

Ramsay laughs again, his wicked smile slicing across his face as he soaks in his victory, soaks in Sansa’s misery and Theon’s surrender. “Yes pet. Mine. Completely.”

 

He unlaces his breeches, and Sansa finally stops praying. 

 

They’re already in hell—no gods can hear her here. 

  
  



	2. Bloody Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize in advance, this is most likely trash, but I have fought with this chapter for a month and I will jump off a cliff if I try and re write it again. Thank you guys for all your wonderful feedback, I hope you stick with me through this! Or at least tolerate this garbage. Hopefully I have an easier time with the next chapter. I want to get to Robb already I miss him so much. Also the aftermath of what Theon did has only barely touched him, things are going to get much worse in that head of his so be prepared.

Sansa loves the sun.

 

She always has—she loves the warmth, loves the light, loves the dresses she can indulge in whenever the air isn’t biting at her skin. That’s one of the reasons she thought she would love the South. It was a place of warmth and opportunity, where princesses went to live happily ever after. As a girl she told herself fairytales of King’s Landing, of being whisked away to the best castle in the land and marrying a prince whom would love her all of her days. It was innocent daydreaming, fantasies only a child would believe. And believe she did.

 

 But now Sansa is all grown up, and nothing worked out how it was supposed to. Her prince didn’t love her. She doesn’t think he could have ever loved anyone really. And while the cold couldn’t touch her there, the acid words drifting through the breeze tore at her much more effectively than ice. The dresses were ploys to placate her, the galas and dinners a farce to flaunt power. Everything she glorified sickened her, and her idealized refuge became the stage for her living nightmare. Every day she was tormented by the twisted mix of the life she wanted for herself and the wretched reality others thrust her into. Cersei was a snake, always lurking, searching for the slightest slip of Sansa’s tongue so that she may brand her a traitor; Joffrey was the monster in every bedtime story, and all the heroes were dead. 

 

But Sansa had still wanted to hope for something better. Winterfell seemed impossible to her then, what with her father dead and family scattered across Westeros. So, desperate and alone, she can understand now why she shifted her rose-tinted aspirations to Highgarden. 

 

_ Highgarden. Fool. Loras and the Tyrells, they aren’t any different than I am. Than  _ you  _ are. Don’t let childish flights of fancy carry you away again Sansa darling.  _

 

Cersei spits the words into her mind, as always, but this time Sansa smirks a bit at them. The Queen makes a point: the Tyrells _ are _ no different from the others. Eager for power, driven by ambition and greed, they used and manipulated Sansa with no more remorse than Cersei. They might have been kinder, but they just wanted to gain her name, and with it, control of the North. 

 

Still, as usual, Cersei is only half correct.

 

The Lannisters, the Tyrells, they are ruthless players in a bitter game—but Sansa isn’t. Not yet.

 

Not until she kills Ramsay Bolton. 

 

During the night, it wasn’t thoughts of peace, of family or of sunshine that kept her sane. No, her solace was found in twisted fantasies of Ramsay’s poetic and brutal demise.When he barked at her not to look away, she imagined carving out his tongue with a rusty knife,  _ watching _ as the blood stained his skin and pooled under her nails. With every possessive and cruel touch Ramsay inflicted on Theon, she pictured crushing another one of his fingers slowly under steel. Every time Theon cried out in pain, despite his efforts to remain silent, she longed to plunge the bastard’s own dagger into his eyes, to watch him wither and scream in agony. Somewhere between silent sobs and Ramsay’s sickening moans she arrived at her resolve: she will kill this man.

 

_ Your poor, kind Lady mother wouldn’t be so proud of you now, would she little dove? _

 

No. Sansa guesses she would be horrified. Mother always worried about Arya, who dreamed of battle and glory and gore—Sansa? Naive, gentle, little Sansa? She would never expect this from her eldest daughter. No one would expect such ferocity from her. But mayhaps therein lies the problem. Everyone, herself included, seems to have forgotten a vital truth: Sansa is a Stark.

 

And she will gladly rip Ramsay Bolton’s throat out with her teeth like the wolf she is before she lets him touch her. 

 

Likely what she will have to do, as she’s already dismissed escape. She has no allies here save maybe Theon, and she knows he will not light the candle to summon Brienne. He’s too frightened of Ramsay to defy him like that, and she cannot necessarily say she blames him. (The point is moot regardless, because there is no chance Brienne could get to her in time). So, she will fight. It will be a mutually assured destruction—she can’t leave herself to be found by Ramsay’s men, they outnumber her and could prove just as callous as their master. But at least she can attempt to ensure Ramsay won’t ever have the chance to hurt anyone again, much less anyone she cares about. 

 

Though that begs the question: does that include Theon?

 

Last night all she could think of was saving him, of keeping him, of damning him for throwing himself in her place and blessing him for the same act. He hadn’t looked at her again, but she couldn’t miss the vacancy in his eyes, horrifying even in comparison to the sadness and fear from before. And even now, newfound mallious coursing through her blood she can’t bring herself to direct it towards him. 

 

The truth is she’s scared for him, even still. 

 

Last night Ramsay hadn’t touched her at all, but Theon… she can’t imagine anything worse. She’d been forced to lie there through the night while Ramsay brutalized him, humiliated him, and it wasn’t until the sun began to rise that Ramsay finally allowed Theon to dress, taking him with him when he left for his daily duties. Sansa remained blissfully forgotten by her new husband, but she’s not so stupid as to think such a luxury will last another night. It’s miracle enough he hasn’t stopped by all day, something must be demanding his attention, or have had the misfortune to attract it—whatever it is she’s thankful for the time it provides her.

 

Though she really, really hopes it isn’t Theon. 

 

As if summoned, a quiet and hesitant knock startles her out of her thoughts. She freezes for a moment, terrified, not at all ready to face Ramsay but not prepared to back down either. Then a hoarse voice—not  _ that _ voice whispers “My Lady,” outside her door, and the tension eases. 

 

“Come in.” She gasps after a long moment, surprised at how great an effort two simple words require of her. The door eases open, slowly, and Sansa is both thoroughly relieved and mildly confused to see Theon cowering in the entryway. His hands are balled into fists, his frame shaking though she can’t deduce if the effect is from her presence or fear of Ramsay’s. 

 

Truthfully Sansa wasn’t expecting to see Theon again. If she succeeds and kills Ramsay, she will have to kill herself before the guards can get to her, and if she fails she’ll do all she can to ensure Ramsay has no choice but to kill her. If she fails at even that, she imagines Ramsay will make her suffer so that she too won’t remember her own name. 

 

None of these pictured scenarios included Theon showing up at the door, looking terrified yet somehow concerned. At best she imagined him possibly taking a chance to escape while Ramsay’s distracted with her, if only because Sansa cannot bear to think of him still here with that beast after she’s gone. She thought he would now view his debt to her as paid, and leave her to her own devices, (wisely) keeping his fate from being any more intertwined with hers. 

 

But once again defying what is expected of him, here is Theon in the rags he’s worn since she arrived,  hovering unsurely in front of her. His entire posture emanates pain, and suspicious red patches near his ribs tell her that he’s likely encountered Ramsay again during the afternoon. Sansa cannot comprehend living in such a permanent state of anguish, certainly not while being forced to do labor on top of the torture. 

 

It seems there is always so much she cannot comprehend, including Theon himself.

 

Her savior, her betrayer, her friend and her hostage. She can’t forgive him for what he did to Bran and Rickon, but how, how can she wish anymore harm on him after this? How can she not wish for him peace? How can she not wish for him suffering? 

 

Gods she wishes she could speak to her mother. Her father—anyone from home really. To her own morbid amusement she would do just about anything to have one conversation with  _ Jon _ , and if by some blessings she could see Robb...

 

Maybe they could answer her questions, could guide her down the right path. Even Bran always seemed to have a wise aura about him, though he was so small when she last saw him. But they are not here. Her parents are dead, her siblings dead or vanished, and all that is left of the childhood she longs for is the broken man standing in front of her. 

And Theon might not be able to answer those questions either, but there are many answers he does owe her, while she can still collect them. 

 

“Theon, why did you save me last night?” Somehow, the words sound more accusing than she thinks they would have should she have began with a harder question, though she does not mean them to. They seem to catch Theon off guard, and whatever words he had been building the nerve to voice are lost as the question crashes over him.

“I- I- Not Theon. Not Theon! Reek…” He scolds himself in a hushed (mildly panicked) tone, losing a battle with something inside himself. His eye twitches uncertainly, his fingers picking at scabs on his forearm absently and Sansa cannot help but look on with pity and sorrow. Part of her wants to strike him out of frustration, to shake sense back into him. To yell and yell until he finally yells back.  The rest wants to comfort him, to try and cajole him back to reality and hope that this  _ thing _ Ramsay has created isn’t all that is left of him. 

 

Sansa sighs and stares at the ground, trying to access how to proceed while checking her own whirlwind of emotions. She needs to remain at least somewhat calm for this, to grasp for some aloofness. This is almost certainly her last opportunity to gather any kind of closure with Theon, and she cannot let her own fear and fury rob her of it.  

 

After debating with herself a moment, she pats a spot on the floor beside her. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to sit on the bed, nor clean up the remnants of her torn gown. She forced herself to change into one of the dresses Ramsay placed in here for her, but knowing whose room this is now, she cannot bring herself to touch anything else.

 

“Sit,” She directs the order to Theon, impressed with herself when she hears how cool her voice comes off. “We have much to discuss and little time to do so.”

 

Theon almost doesn’t move. She can see his hesitation in the way his entire body tenses, his eyes darting around before once again settling at his own feet. Then, with an almost invisible nod, he limps forward, settling down quietly a few feet away from where she gestured. Sansa chooses not to push the matter, instead continuing on with her questioning. 

 

“How long have you been with him?” She says slowly, forcing the words through her clenched teeth. Honestly, she dreads the answer, but somehow she feels it's important she knows this. Knows how long he has suffered. If only so someone besides  _ them _ does. 

 

Theon picks at a tear in his shirt, still keeping his eyes downcast as he thinks. “I am not entirely sure how long it's been since my Lady, but he caught me as I fled from Winterfell. I’ve been with him since then, first at the Dreadfort, then here. ”

Sansa is floored as she processes his response. 

 

Years. Theon has been in that monster’s hands for  _ years. _

 

Gods, she had anticipated that he’d been here awhile, considering the state of his appearance, but she had assumed months, perhaps a year at worst. How can he speak to her now, while damaged, still at least mildly functioning? How has he been surviving though all of this alone? How after so many years of degradation and torture did he find the strength to stand up and protect her? 

 

“Do you remember that night in the woods?” She asks abruptly, starting herself and likely Theon as well with the question. It isn’t what she intended to ask, isn’t in the realm of questions she  _ should  _  be asking, but she can figure why she is, given her previous train of thought. She doesn’t know if he will remember that night, as she had all but forgotten it until a moment ago, but it seems important now. Certainly relevant.  

 

Theon seems lost by her sudden change in demeanor, her apathetic appearance almost entirely dissolving at the recollection. Even if she wanted to (stoicism was never her strong suit) she couldn’t have masked the sad eagerness in her voice, and while baffled, he looks as if he is at least attempting to remember for her. 

 

After a brief minute, he shakes his head sadly. “I am sorry my Lady, I’m not sure which night you mean.” He sounds genuinely regretful too, and a bit afraid, as if she will lash out at him for a mere lapse in memory. 

 

Sansa smiles bitterly, her gaze shifting to the window. “I suspected you wouldn’t. But I do, now. I was such a little thing then. Ten perhaps, I’m not completely sure. You and Jon and Robb were still a few years short of being men, that much I know. Though even then I was envious of  your freedom. I suppose it was as close to a rebellious phase as I ever came, and now that I think on it, I was similar then to how Arya always seems to be. You all spent the day fighting and exploring while I learned how to sew and paint, and I craved adventure as well. So, I decided I would go out on my own quest, and impress you all. While you three did venture out into the woods, you never went alone, you were always to stay together. I thought I would explore them by myself, so I could prove to everyone I could be just as brave, if not braver, than you boys. Gods, hearing it now I truly do sound like Arya.”

 

Sansa has to stop herself a moment, wiping away the tears that began to pool in her eyes at the mention of Arya. Her wild little sister with outrageous dreams and almost appalling behavior. They never got along, always desiring different things out of life, but now Sansa would give anything to get to be her big sister again. She had taken Arya for granted before, and now she might never get to see her again.

 

“Anyways,” she pushes herself to continue, voice still heavy with grief. “Fool I was, I waited until my last lesson of the day and told my tutor I wasn’t feeling well. She let me leave easily enough, but chided me a bit. But I didn't mind, too excited about my plans to heed her complaints. I was so eager in fact, I slipped outside and into the woods without any kind of protection, or anyone knowing where I had gone. I thought I’d be back before dinner, and could brag of my exploits afterwards when mother and father turnt in. But, as anyone else would have expected, I quickly got lost, the trees too tall for me to see Winterfell behind them, and the falling snow masking my footprints so I couldn’t simply retrace them. I was petrified, convinced I would die in the snow then, a idiotic girl trying to be something she wasn’t. I called out for my father, hoping that my absence had been noticed and he would find me before I froze. I hadn’t brought enough covering for the cold that night, and was shivering terribly. But it wasn’t my father who came looking, was it?”

 

She looks up then, fearing Theon will be staring at her with the same stupefied expression as before. But when she carefully meets his gaze, she catches a brief glimpse of recognition in dead blue eyes that fills her with absurd hope that perhaps Theon is still in there, somewhere. 

 

“I- I saw you sneak away,” He stutters as first, as if surprised at his own voice. “I had wanted to practice with my bow a bit more before dinner, so I was heading to my room to get it when I saw you run into the woods. I wasn’t sure what to do, I knew we weren’t supposed to go into the woods alone, but I also knew I’d lose you if I took the time to find someone else, so I followed you myself. 

 

A fond, nolgastic smile sweeps over Sansa’s features as she pictures Theon then: lanky and scruffy, his hair even more a mess than it had been when she left for King’s Landing. Some of the other boys teased him for being so skinny, so he was always trying to practice more so as to build up muscle.

“That’s right,” She says softly, another burst of anger and sadness stinging her when she sees the relieved look on his face. “You came in after me, without so much as a weapon. You found me crying, curled up on some dead log and you picked me up and told me everything was going to be alright. I should have been heavy for you, yet you still carried me back, and you didn’t laugh at me for trying to be brave, or for crying. I remember being so shocked because you were always japing and teasing, but you were so kind to me that night. All you said as you carried me home was not to go back into the woods alone because—”

“I couldn’t always be there to rescue you.” Theon whispers, looking so far away, and Sansa almost wants to let him stay there, in the past. Not to say a word and give him as much time as he can get out of these memories before reality sweeps back over him. But she can’t afford him long. She needs the truth. 

 

“And when mother asked why we were late to dinner, you told her you got caught up practicing and I had set out to find you.” Sansa finishes gently, and without warning moves herself closer to him, grasping his hands. 

 

Theon startles at her sudden proximity, staring at their interlocked hands with a bewildered expression.

 

“You saved me that night Theon. You put yourself in danger to make sure I wouldn’t get lost beyond recovery. And last night, you saved me again without reason or reward, when everything between us is different. I want to know why Theon. Why did you do it all?” Her voice is pleading, but hurt, and she squeezes his hands a bit to keep herself grounded. 

 

Almost instantly as she says it, Sansa sees the struggle begin again in Theon’s mind as he wrestles with Ramsay’s conditioning. “Not Theon!” He stutters anxiously. “I’m not him anymore! He’s dead! My name is Reek! Reek! I know my name!”

 

“That is  _ not _ your name,” She roars, desperate and angry. “You  _ are _ Theon Greyjoy. You are the man who saved my life, who has saved Bran’s, who I have always thought of as another brother. You betrayed my family, you murdered my brothers—yet last night you saved me from the very Master you cower from, which makes no sense from someone who would do all that to my family. None of it makes any sense and Theon, I cannot read your mind and see your thoughts on us all, but regardless of status, of circumstances, of birth even, we grew up side by side as siblings. As your lady, as your sister, as whatever it is you see me as, I  _ demand _ to know why, why you did all of it. I want to know how you can be so cruel and selfish as to betray Robb...to...to  _ burn _ Bran and Rickon, then step in and receive scars that would have been mine?  How can you be savior and turncloak in the same breath? How can you be brother and enemy?”

 

_ How can you be a coward yet delude yourself with thoughts of bravery? We all have little deceptions we tell ourselves. _

 

“Please Theon,” She begs, the strength leaving her. “Please, right now you are all but a stranger to me, and I don’t want to die surrounded by strangers.” 

 

War rages between Theon and Reek. His countenance is pained and tears threaten to spill from his eyes as well, and there’s regret, so much regret she could choke on it. He bites his lip hard and Sansa sees blood begin to bubble up from the abused skin as he finally begins to speak. 

 

“I betrayed Robb,” Theon croaks, and Sansa almost sobs a bit herself, because she knew this was coming. He’s said it before, he said it at dinner, she  _ knew _ this would be what he said— “But I didn’t kill Bran and Rickon. They could be dead now, but not by my hand. The boys… the boys I murdered were two farm boys. Commoners, nothing to do with any of this. Bran and Rickon escaped and I… I couldn’t let people find out so I killed them and burned their bodies so everyone would believe it. I burned your home, I betrayed your brother...maybe if I hadn’t he’d be alive. At the very least, I should have been there. I should have died with him. I should have died  _ for _ him. I would take it all back now but I can’t. I have no idea where your brothers are Sansa. You have no reason to believe me but that it is your truth. I’m so sorry.”

 

Sansa is speechless. All…all she was really hoping for was for him to tell her he hadn’t really burned them, that he hadn’t meant to, something stupid and irrelevant but that could make her feel slightly better. Something so that she could let herself take comfort in him for as long as she has left without her guilt crushing her, to give her some sense of why all this happened. This… she hadn’t expected. Bran and Rickon… how could they be alive? They… they could be out there, and she could find them. They might still be hiding somewhere... but something else strikes her in his speech, a part he left unanswered. 

 

“I… I want to believe you Theon. That they are alive somewhere. I never imagined you could… you could kill them. It was devastating to hear, I was sure I was being played at first. But tell me, if not to repent for their murder then why did you do that last night? You could have stayed silent, no one could have faulted you. I didn’t even conceive there was… why? Why did you give him that, when you know all you’ve done is buy me some time?”

 

Theon looks at her then, and it is, indeed Theon. Not the one she once knew but—something. A ghost mayhaps, or just a man on borrowed time. 

 

“Because Theon Greyjoy is gone Sansa. I’m… he’s broken me. He’s broken me beyond repair...but now you aren’t broken. What is another piece of a shattered man in comparison to keeping him away from you? ” He says softly, resigned, and this time Sansa doesn’t fight the tears, letting them fill her eyes and run down her cheeks. “It is a lot Theon. More than you can know.” Without really considering it fully she throws her arms around his too slim frame, pulling him close to her, burying her face in his shoulder and finally letting her tears freely fall.

 

Theon freezes for a moment, but just as she starts to pull away he puts his arms around her in turn. “I’m sorry I can’t always rescue you.” He whispers woefully and she grips him tighter, the words echoing both of their pain. 

 

“ And I’m sorry no one was ever around to rescue you, Theon.” She says softly, running gentle fingers through his greasy hair as her mother once did for her. 

 

Theon gasps at that, shocked, and within a few seconds she feels his chest begins to heave as he sobs with her. They sit like that awhile, the two of them, crying in each other’s arms like the children they should really still be. 

 

And they wait. 


	3. The Folly of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Theon escape the Dreadfort...now Sansa has choices to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit rushed, things have been crazy with midterms and all. But honestly I'm just ready to get to the Wall so I apologize if the pace is hurried.

Ramsay doesn’t come. 

 

Sansa clings to Theon, and remembers a time when Robb would do the same, oh so long ago. 

 

Before both of them were taught by soldiers and lords (and likely even her father) not to allow anyone to see the depths of their pain, even each other. She can vividly recall herself sitting warm in her mother’s arms, Catelyn's stroking her hair softly and soothing her whenever she was upset. And with equal clarity she remembers  the scolding Robb received from their uncle when he broke his arm and they found him crying in Theon’s arms. She remembers the looks of disgust Theon would receive after tearing up on his first couple name days without his family.

 

_ Men _ could never display their hurt like a woman—to do so compromises the validity of their strength, somehow dismisses their capability. 

 

Fools. Sansa never could understand why this myth of manliness prevailed despite the stupidity woven into every facet of it. As if somehow they are not human, as if somehow they do not feel with the same intensity and depth. Pretending indifference could never really protect them—could not make them  _ truly _ indifferent. 

Theon played perfectly into the absurd expectation his entire life. Almost as long as she’s known him, his demeanor consisted of a carefully crafted persona of apathy and arrogance. He threw empty words and walked with all the confidence of a king, but could never shake the loneliness of a prisoner. All his precious act did was ensure he suffered alone—save for the the occasional comfort of Robb.

 

And Robb. Her brave, gold hearted brother. Gods she misses him. She loves and hates him in equal measures—loves him for being the amazing and doting big brother she never deserved and hates him for leaving her alone. For dying on her, when he was all she knew she had left, except for Jon, who she doesn’t even know is still alive for certain. Robb had been such a perfect heir, and she knows he would have been the perfect King. He ran to war screaming of honor and justice when his heart truly cried out in grief and rage. 

 

And his death, the result of an impulse, a battle-born act of love. 

 

Except Sansa knew her brother, and Robb Stark only fell prey to his impulses born from pain. No amount of bluster heals a wounded heart, only leaves it to fester and grow until death takes its due. Men like Theon, like her brother—like all of them really, they convince themselves to repress their humanity will bring them some elusive power, and all it truly does is make them more vulnerable to self-destruction. 

  
  


One cannot ignore their weaknesses—instead they must embrace them, know them intimately, and shape them into a weapon to use on those unsuspecting. 

 

_ Is that a lesson you learned from my words or my mistakes, little dove? _

 

Sansa doesn’t know. 

 

But she does know that the weaknesses of men live close to the surface. They can be hurt much more easily than they appear. They never even notice how easily a woman can manipulate them, because they are trying so hard not to be aware of their emotions they cannot tell when they are being used against them. Cersei and Margaery used that fact relentlessly, and even Sansa herself has used it time to time. 

 

It’s something she’s come to think of as fact: the strengths of women lie in places men are too cowardly to dwell. 

 

It’s the reason why her dread transforms into utter terror the moment Myranda strides into the room instead of Ramsay.

 

Sansa instantly curls around Theon, as if she can somehow protect him (even though she’s likely in much greater danger from Myranda than he is). As she moves over him her hair falls over her shoulder and she notices Theon instinctively hide behind it. Sansa only catches the briefest glimpse of the panic in his eyes as he retreats, and he’s utterly Reek once again. Her eyes tear a bit in disappointment—she had hoped...but still, she tightens her grip around him and vows to herself that for what he did last night, she will try to keep him out of this as much as possible. 

 

Myranda watches their reactions with mild interest, but her manic, wild glare is focused on Sansa alone. “My lady,” she purrs, the threat heavy in her words as she slowly stalks closer, closing the door behind her. “Terribly sorry, but it seems one of the mangier dogs has wandered its way into your rooms.”

 

For the first time the woman looks directly at Theon, smiling at him as she runs her fingers absently over the blade at her side. “Ramsay doesn’t like his pet wondering about where he doesn’t belong,” She says, and Sansa can feel Theon shake in her arms. “But I think I’ll deal with him later. You and I, we are due a little chat, are we not?”

 

Still smiling, Myranda reaches behind her and only then does Sansa notice the bow and quiver on the other woman’s back. When she spots it, Sansa nearly bites through her lip in frustration, and she can feel Theon’s nails digging into her skin for the same reason.

 

There’s no hope now. Sansa might have been able to attack Myranda if she simply had the knife, but with a bow and arrow the dog keeper won’t even need to get close to tear Sansa apart. And unlike Ramsay, she has nothing to use against her. Sansa cannot manipulate her desires or her vulnerabilities, not when Myranda is donning her jealousy and hatred like a second skin rather than something to be hidden. 

 

_ Fitting it be a woman who destroys you. Tragic though, that this pitiful common girl gets that satisfaction instead of me. Perhaps you would have been better with the devil you know, little dove.  _

 

“Come Reek, move away from  _ Lady Bolton _ . She and are going to have a bit of fun before your master returns—and I’m sure once he sees my work he’ll want to give you your turn himself.”

 

Somehow Theon’s shaking worsens as he slowly pulls away, watching her with terrified eyes. He looks childlike, unsure—it hurts her so. Blood from her torn lip trickles down her chin and onto his hand, and she watches it stain the dirty skin a sickly, muddy red. 

 

He doesn’t blink. 

 

“Now dog.” Myranda hisses, and Theon moves more hurriedly away from her, scrambling away from their spot on the floor, and leaving Sansa feeling even more exposed. He moves towards the corner of the room, cowering there and watching them both with a expression she would liken towards an animal about to be slaughtered. Sansa sends him a sad, reassuring smile and hopes he knows she doesn’t blame him. She’s so, so angry that this is how it ends. That this  _ bitch _ will be how Ramsay gets the chance to break her, when she survived Cersei Lannister. She’s furious at herself, at Baelish and the Gods themselves. 

 

But she isn’t angry at him anymore. She hopes he knows that. 

 

“Such a pretty little thing aren’t you.” Myranda snaps, pulling her first arrow from the quiver. 

 

At the words, Sansa tears her eyes away from Theon and fixes them on this woman, whose fair countenance is contorted in envy. She braces her now empty hands behind her, pushing herself to her knees and glaring back at her, no longer bothering with pretenses. She doesn’t know what will happen now, if she will die tonight, or if she’ll end up like Theon. But regardless of what happens, she will not fall meekly.

 

She’s already wasted too much time with that. 

 

“I suppose I am, when compared to you. Tell me, does Ramsay like you because you look like his beloved dogs, or because he can have you as he would a bitch? Why else would a lord ever touch a wench like you?”

 

Even as the words leave her bloodied lips Sansa cannot believe herself. She doesn’t think she has ever voiced something so vulgar, doesn’t even know where such a thing came from. Myranda’s eyes widen as well, and while her grip doesn’t waver, Sansa takes her joy in the red flush spreading across the insane woman’s cheeks and the whiteness of her knuckles as she notches the arrow.

 

If nothing else she has the satisfaction of knowing she touched some sort of nerve. Not something hidden enough to break her composure, but enough Sansa knows her words will linger with Myranda, echo in her thoughts whenever she  _ celebrates _ with Ramsay.

 

A small victory, and one she’ll likely suffer for, but a victory nevertheless.

 

“It won’t be me he fucks like a bitch tonight,  _ my lady. _ But I truly doubt that’s what you’ll be thinking about then. I have plenty in mind to distract you from it.”

 

Myranda aims the arrow at Sansa’s leg, smiling wickedly.

 

Then she crumbles to the ground. 

 

Sansa doesn’t move for what seems like an eternity, instead watching the blood pool around Myranda’s head in some sort of morbid halo.  Her knees ache from her position, and blood is still running down her chin. 

 

“Sansa. We have to go Sansa.” 

 

Suddenly the spell is broken and Sansa looks up to see Theon standing over Myranda’s body, a candlestick still gripped in his shaky hand. His countenance is wild, his tongue flicking out nervously over his teeth. “Sansa?” He whispers this time, not looking at her—barely looking at anything at all truthfully. 

 

“Theon.” She finally forces out, trying to shake off the shock.

 

Theon. Theon killed Myranda. 

 

They have a chance.

 

“We have to go. We have to go now.” She says, pushing herself up, her own legs unsteady underneath her. Theon doesn't seem to hear her,  despite the fact that just a moment ago he was the one urging her back to her senses. She steps over the body, determinedly not looking at Myranda’s face, and grips his shoulder. “Theon?”

 

_ How typical. You get an opportunity to escape and instead you’re here gawking over a man instead of acting intelligent for once.  _

 

“Theon. Theon we have to go.” Sansa growls, ignoring Cersei. “Now.” 

 

This time something clicks in Theon’s tattered mind, and his eyes dart up to hers, something like clarity sparkling there again for a moment.

 

“Let’s go.” He says, grabbing her wrist, and then they are moving. He’s weaving them through hallways, pulling her past the guards and—no one even looks. No one considers that Ramsay’s pet and newest plaything could possibly be defying him. 

 

_ Would his pet be defying him, if you had never arrived? If Ramsay catches you it will be you he blames for Theon. You should leave the traitor here to his punishment.  _

 

Sansa almost wretches at the mere thought, and digs her nails into Theon’s wrist, as if to reassure herself she has him. He looks back, ever so briefly, and then pulls her along faster until they get to the edge of the wall. 

 

They jump.

 

They run.

 

They fear. 

 

Sansa’s thoughts exist as nothing but a streamline of instructions, her own primal instincts screaming at her to  _ survive _ . 

 

_ Move. _

 

_ Listen. _

 

_ Don’t let them get you. _

 

_ Don’t let them get Theon. _

 

_ Don’t lose. _

 

Not Cersei’s voice.

 

She sees Theon talking to the guards—she sees Brienne take them out. Then both of them are quickly being hustled away and she finally allows Brienne to pledge her loyalty. 

 

Only then do her thoughts slow down, and she can fully process what just occurred. 

 

They escaped. They escaped, because Theon murdered Myranda for her. He risked everything for her—again. And Sansa is free. She’s going to make it to the Wall. To Jon. 

 

She will have the chance to take her home back. 

 

“My Lady? Are you alright? What did he do to you?” Brienne asks, her concern etched deep into her tired features. Sansa looks up at her and suddenly understands why her mother might have taken a liking to this woman. She’s strong, but she's undoubtedly kind. 

 

“He didn’t do much to me at all. He was...distracted.” Sansa whispers the last part, her eyes darting to where Theon cowers beside Podrick. Brienne’s gaze follows hers, and her expression transforms to that of grim understanding and confusion as her head falls slightly. 

 

“I see…” Brienne watches Podrick thank Theon for stepping in, Theon simply staring down at his hands  Then she looks back to Sansa, her eyes brimming with sadness (and pity, though Sansa hates to recognize it) “I do not know what you have suffered my lady. Nor he. But I think you should perhaps speak to him while you have a chance. He... doesn’t look well.”

 

At those words Sansa’s nails dig into her palms, her wet clothes jostling against her skin as she lurches to attention. “What do you mean?” She snaps, watching Theon more intensely, searching him for signs of injury. 

 

Brienne grimaces as she looks on as well, the pair watching as Podrick still vainly attempts to draw Theon’s attention. “Lady Sansa I have seen terrible things, and heard worse, still I’ve never considered someone as damaged as him. He’s weak and sick—and if his body doesn't get him, his mind will.” 

 

Sansa watches Theon sudder, his now thin frame racked with shivers from the icy wind, his skin pale and clammy. His expression is vacant, and she can suddenly see vividly what Brienne means. 

 

Theon’s never going to recover.

 

Even if she can save him physically, she’ll never be able to piece back what Ramsay destroyed. She doesn’t even know much about Theon’s true self before Ramsay, she never took the time to learn. The only one who did was...was Robb. 

 

And what would Robb do? After Theon’s betrayal? Would he cast Theon aside? Would he send him back home? Would he… would he kill him quickly? Would that be cruel or kind? 

 

Brienne places a hand gently on Sansa’s shoulder, and Sansa absently wonders if she looks as stricken as she feels. 

 

“It would perhaps be merciful to take his head,” she says sadly, mind seemingly drifting, and Sansa almost asks what she’s thinking of. “But it would be a coward's choice after everything I think, if he you saved you as you say. And knowing you to be Lady Catelyn’s daughter I strongly doubt you are a coward my Lady.” 

 

Sansa smiles at that, despite the pain that aches in her chest at the mention of her mother. “You’re correct Lady Brienne. I am no coward...and I won’t abandon him now.” 

 

“Just Brienne. I’m no Lady.” 

 

Sansa’s smile grows at that, and she knows immediately that Arya would like this woman if they had a chance to get to know each other. 

 

“Indeed.” 

 

Brienne looks taken aback a moment at Sansa’s easy acceptance, but recovers quickly. “Perhaps you should go to your friend. It is equally possible Podrick will annoy him to death before you decide what to do.” 

 

Sansa chuckles a bit, a warm feeling in her stomach combating the icy chill of the air. 

 

“I’ll speak to him, then we should be on our way.”

Brienne nods in agreement and moves to drag Podrick away as Sansa steps in to speak to Theon.

 

“Theon?” She says softly, attempting to draw his gaze. But Theon doesn’t so much as flinch, his eyes riveted on his hands. Reflexively she looks as well, and quickly wishes she hadn’t. Missing fingers, flaying scars, burns, layers and layers of dirt and grime. And then most recently—blood. Hers and Myranda’s, and maybe even Theon’s own. 

 

Sansa brushes her fingers across her torn lip, almost having forgotten about it. 

 

“Theon?” She says a bit more forcefully, slightly worried about his intensity. Still, Theon doesn’t respond, seemingly unaware. 

 

“Theon!” She snaps, gently grabbing his chin and turning his face towards hers, only to almost instantly be sick.

 

Theon’s eyes are glassy, and he looks at her as if he can’t even see her. As if she’s not there at all.

 

“Brienne, Podrick,” she calls, the panic returning quickly. “Something is wrong with Theon!” 

 

_ Don’t let him go. Sansa you are his only chance right now. He will disappear if you do not force him to stay. Trust your instincts.  _

 

Wait. Wait. Sansa knows that voice, the one from before, the one that wasn’t Cersei.

 

_ Go to the Wall. You have much to do.  I love you. _

 

Sansa must have finally snapped as well, because she swears, that must be...but it can’t be..

 

“Bran?” 


	4. Brothers and Oaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is almost to the Wall, but she and Theon need to talk first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I'm going to apologize now for how rushed this chapter was considering how its been a bit since I updated. The structure I want would have been harder if I tried to split it up, and I really didn't want two chapters of traveling considering how little time I have to write these days. Still I hope you enjoy, and that you'll stick with me. This chapter is fairly calm as the next will be brimming with drama, so prepare yourselves. And Robb will see Theon next chapter!

Sansa never wanted to see the Wall.

 

That was Jon’s dream.To disappear with their uncle, live a life of adventure and freedom from the tight constraints of the world they live in. Though they all knew why he  _ truly _ idolized such a grim and lackluster existence, why he counted down the days to what most men view a  life sentence.

 

It was because on the Wall, names mean nothing. All that matters is the strength in your arm and your heart—something she thinks now should be the norm, not merely a fantasy of bastards and bards. In Winterfell, it wouldn’t have mattered if Jon was (and she thinks she can admit now that he’s probably close to) one of the best men in Westeros, he’d forever be defined by the name Snow.

 

Her softer side hopes that he indeed found respite there, that Jon has been spared the woe and anguish that has become synonymous with the Stark name the past couple years—mayhaps the bastard blood he always thought his curse was enough to save him from the fate of his family. But  that little dream fades as her thoughts and eyes flicker towards the other boy who never bared her name, the one who certainly did not escape the misery that Sansa thinks now dwells in their very blood.   
  


Theon Greyjoy has had suffering carved into his bones, branded into his soul. Without Stark name or blood, the  _ pain _ followed him still. 

 

_ Hope is for children and fools, little dove, have you yet to learn? You are no longer a child, so I suppose you are simply a fool. Pity.  _

 

Sansa scowls and dismisses the biting words, attempting not to let her mind consume itself with thoughts of what could have befallen Jon when she is so _ close _ . So close to finding him, so close she can see the ominous figure of Castle Black in the near distance. Instead she forces herself to refocus on the task she’s been desperately avoiding for too long now: confronting Theon.

 

Sansa has noticed him attempt to sneak away several times the past couple of days. He hasn’t succeeded due to Brienne’s or her own interference, one or both of them casually calling him over whenever they see him drifting too far. Yet, neither has asked about his intentions, instead fainting ignorance. Brienne, she knows, does so because she feels she doesn’t have the right to intervene in such a deeply personal matter of a man she barely knows (whose struggle she cannot begin to comprehend).

 

Sansa however, has no such excuse save for pure cowardice. 

 

Frankly, she’s been avoiding this conversation because she’s terrified of how Theon will react. He’s like a spooked horse as of late, flinching at the slightest noise, apologizing profusely  for small or even imagined missteps. Conversing with him is like attempting to walk across the thin sheet of ice on a newly frozen lake, not trusting any step you make and just hoping the ground won’t fall out beneath you.

 

And Sansa fears what could happen if she pushes too far. That these...episodes of Theon’s will claim him permanently.

 

The first one, right after they escaped, nearly left Sansa insensible. Theon was just… gone. His heart beat still, but he was utterly unresponsive, his awareness stolen by some malfunctioning corner of his mind. For hours he was like that, a living statue, and Sansa was sure she had lost him despite everything. 

 

But then finally, he awoke from whatever stupor he had sunk into, confused and shaken. He was surprised to be free, even moreso to be  _ alive _ and free. He likely never imagined that it would happen again, when he fell into Ramsay’s clutches.

 

He nodded and gave her a weak smile when she assured him he hadn’t died, but Sansa couldn’t stop feeling as if there was a tinge of disappointment to it. 

 

Since that day, scenes like that have been occurring more frequently. Over the past few weeks Theon has slipped into that state numerous times, sometimes remaining there for hours, others only a few minutes. They’ve yet to discover a way to rouse him, and while he seems eerily unconcerned about it, Sansa has been fretting constantly that the next time he falls into one of these scenes he won’t wake up again.

 

Honestly, Sansa just doesn’t know how to begin a conversation that could result in her losing him, not after everything. But  they’ll reach the Castle by nightfall if they hurry, and she has a feeling Theon’s reservations will come to a head much more dramatically if she doesn’t speak with him this morning. If life has taught her nothing else, is that unpleasantry cannot be avoided and fear will not save her. 

 

“Theon? May I have a word?” She manages to choke out, her voice not nearly as steady as she would like. Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear, watching quietly as Theon looks up from where he’s resting, his expression apprehensive and confused. Sansa glances towards Brienne across the camp, who gives her a reassuring nod as Theon moves towards her. 

 

His posture is so different than it use to be, he moves slowly, hesitantly, his back hunched. A far cry from the strut he use to have, the one she knows Robb secretly envied. Robb could walk with purpose, but he could never master Theon’s indifferent manner. She’s never seen someone else as capable of appearing careless and unaffected as the Ironborn Price, now she suspects she’ll never she it again. The man who wore that counternace no longer exists—and neither does the world that created him. 

 

“Yes my Lady?” Theon questions softly. His voice rarely rises above a whisper these days, everything he does done softly, or quietly, or weakly.Sansa smiles at him, ignoring the little pain in her heart that thought causes her, gesturing for him to sit next to her. He nods and sits, wrapping his cloak around him. His hands are trembling as they move, his eyes remaining resolutely fixed on a pile of snow a few feet away.

 

On impulse Sansa reaches out, laying a hand softly on his shoulder. His head jerks towards her, and she tilts her own in response, trying to look reassuring.

 

“It’s just Sansa Theon, I’ve told you. We are beyond titles at this point I think.” 

 

She keeps her tone light, and her words earn her the slightest hint of a smile, something to be coveted from him these days (when once a grin from Theon Greyjoy was the easiest thing in the world to see). It gives her enough confidence to continue, hoping that she can muddle through this somehow. 

 

“Theon,” She begins slowly, the words heavy on her tongue. Theon’s eyes fixate on his lap, a moderate improvement and Sansa pushes herself forward.

 

“We need to discuss what’s going on. I’ve noticed you try to slip away when you think no one is watching you, and while I’m not angry, I would like to know why.”

 

Theon is quiet for a long moment. His hands shake even more wildly and he grips his thighs in an attempt to steady them, his nails digging into what little flesh he seems to have there at this point. Sansa bites her tongue to keep from scolding him, as she wants to give him time to respond, not turn this into some sort of lecture. 

 

“My L-Sansa,” Theon begins, stuttering at first. “I apologize, I’m so sorry I simply didn’t want to upset you in any way, but—” His tone heightens a bit hysterically, and Sansa reaches over, gripping his cold hand tightly in her own. 

 

“Breathe Theon, I promise am  _ not _ angry. I just want to talk. Tell me why you want to leave, it’s alright. I will listen and no one will hurt you.” Theon nods softly, his breathing calming a bit and he pauses a moment to regroup.

 

“Sansa, I don’t think it is wise for me to continue on to Castle Black with you. Jon will rightly be furious with me and I know that you said you don’t wish me dead. But I also will not fight Jon on it—I don’t want you to have to go through that. You’ve been through enough.”

 

Sansa freezes, having thought of this this herself. Jon will be bloodthirsty, that is true enough, but even he would not defy the oath and murder Theon, especially if she insisted the old ward be left to himself. Or once he lays eyes on him, whichever happens first. She doesn’t know if anyone’s rage could completely withstand seeing the damage that has befallen Theon the past couple years. 

 

Hers couldn’t.

 

“Theon if you take the Black Jon cannot do anything to you, you will be forgiven. You know that.” Suddenly, Theon jerks her hand from hers, his breath quickening dangerously. His expression twists into something nasty and hateful, but he doesn’t direct it towards her. Sansa sits back, stunned and cautious as he begins to speak (almost as if she isn’t even there).

 

“Forgiveness? I don’t  _ want _ to be forgiven. I murdered two children, caused the deaths of many others, betrayed everyone. I have no right to take the Black. I won’t.”

 

Sansa blinks, her mouth moving but words failing to come. She hadn’t considered that. Not once did it cross her mind that Theon  _ wouldn’t _ take the Black. Closing her eyes, she takes a few deep breaths, not allowing her anger to rise to meet his. This could only end badly then. 

 

“ Then I will protect you, but I cannot let you leave Theon, at least not until you are well. I would never forgive myself otherwise. Where would you go? And furthermore, how would you get there, as weak as you are? Ramsay is searching for us, the Northern soldiers will spare no mercy and even if you did make it out of the North, what is out there for you?” She reasons, carefully watching him as she speaks.

 

Theon listens intently, his anger fading from his stance, not even rising again when she calls him weak (which surprises her, though mayhaps it shouldn’t).

 

“I suppose I’ll have to go home.” He says slowly, letting his long hair fall in front of his eyes, presumably an attempt to mask his true feelings regarding that suggestion. Still, it doesn’t prevent Sansa from hearing the feebleness of the answer. Theon doesn’t really believe it himself—he is  saying the only thing he thinks he can say that she would believe.

 

She licks her dry lips and nods once, not able to contain her frustration this time. 

 

“The last time you returned to Pyke your life fell apart. You’ve told me what it was like, do you really want to return to that? To your father? Or is your plan to die out in the snow, after everything—” Her voice rises a bit and Sansa pauses, glancing at Theon and seeing him wince. 

 

She blanches. That  _ is _ his plan. He’s trying so hard to leave simply to die out there, alone. Out of her sight (or at best, return to a place that has brought him nothing but misery). Gods be damned, how is she supposed to handle this? She doesn’t know Theon well enough to understand what is going on in his  mind. Even if she did, how would she understand what Ramsay did? How would she understand this guilt Theon seems to be carrying?

 

_ The Wall, Sansa. Trust me. Get there and there’s a chance for him _ — _ and a need for you. _

 

Sansa stops, her eyes flying wide and her breathing ceasing. Theon sits up in concern, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

 

Bran. Gods, she hadn’t imagined him. She hasn’t heard him since that night, she was beginning to think it was only panic…or some ghost come to haunt the corners of her mind, like the ever bitter voice of Cersei hissing in her head day and night.

 

_ Bran? How? Where are you? How do I get him there? Are you alright? _

 

She sits there for several more moments, ignoring Theon’s increasing franticness, but there’s no response from Bran. Sansa curses to herself, resisting the urge to cry from desperation. 

 

She’s so lost. She just wants her family back and not to lose anyone else.

 

“Sansa?” Theon asks hesitantly, touching her shoulder just slightly. There’s a hint of guilt in his tone, probably for his part in her distress and though it may be underhanded, she decides to use it.

 

She lurches towards him, burying her head in his shoulder and letting the tears come, twisting both her hands in his cloak. “Theon, please. I promise I will keep you safe but please do not leave me. Please, come with me to the Wall. I cannot do this alone, I need you. Please.” She feels Theon freeze under the onslaught, taken aback and frightened, but eventually he relents, his arms encircling Sansa’s shaking frame.

 

“Sansa I—I’m sorry, I will come, I’m sorry. Please Sansa, I swear it, don’t cry. I’m so sorry.”

 

_ Perhaps you are learning the ways of the game after all, little dove. Well done.  _

 

Sansa ignores Cersei's taunting, burrowing herself further into the warmth of Theon’s grip. She doesn’t like this, but she needs to get him to the Wall. She just needs to get through today, get to Jon and they’ll have a chance.

 

_ Please be right Bran. _

 

_ Please.  _

 

“Th-Thank you Theon.  _ Thank you.” _ She says sincerely, pulling him closer for a moment and just basking in the warmth, in the assurance. Sansa hates herself for manipulating him, but she’s willing to if it means keeping him alive. If it means giving him a second chance he will not grant himself. 

 

“If you will not take the Black, stay here the night while Brienne and I go on. Podrick shall keep you company while I speak with Jon, so that we can avoid any misunderstanding. I will send for you in the morning.”

 

Theon pulls away at her words, nodding, but it’s difficult not to see the doubt there. If anything however, that only strengthens her resolve and she gently grips his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye.

 

“It will be alright Theon. I promise you will not cause me grief, not if you stay.”

 

Theon nods slowly and Sansa sighs in relief, looking towards Brienne and shedding the girl, once again becoming the Lady. “Brienne, ready yourself. We leave now to meet my brother, Podrick and Theon can follow tommorow.”

 

Brienne shoots a slightly worried glance towards Podrick, but schools herself quickly, gathering her things. Professional, as always. Sansa rises and begins to move towards her, but stops a moment, the cynical, untrusting corner of her mind nagging at her. 

 

“I want your word Theon. I want your word that you will at least attempt to stay at Castle Black, I shall not keep you there after that, but I want your word you will give me an honest attempt.” Her spine is perfectly straight, her words icy and distance and for just a moment Sansa feels like her mother. Strong, regal, confident in her demands. It makes her feel closer to Catelyn than their physical similarities ever have. 

 

“You want the word of a turncloak?” Theon says after a brief silence, and Sansa is both relieved and surprised to hear a bit of bitterness there.

 

“I ask for the word of Theon Greyjoy.” She replies cooly, still not turning towards him, afraid her instiance will falter if she breaks the moment. 

 

This is a difficult request. For her and for Theon, as the last time he gave he word to a Stark it was Robb. Their relationship has improved, but Robb is a sensitive subject, buried in grief and blame and guilt. She doesn’t know if either of them can handle looking each other in the eyes with his ghost between them, not yet. 

 

Theon’s says nothing for a long while. Sansa fears a moment she pushed him too far, that if she turns around she’ll face absent eyes once more. Just as she is about to turn though, he speaks, his voice stronger and clearer than its been since Winterfell. 

 

“Than it is yours, my Lady. I give you my word I shall join you at Castle Black tomorrow and I shall attempt to remain there.” Sansa’s shoulders fall slightly in relief, a small smile pulling at her cheeks. She wants to express her gratitude, wants to hug him, but she restrains herself. Theon’s memories do not treat him kindly and she imagines all he can think of right now is Robb. 

 

Theon will not appreciate her thanks. 

 

Instead she waves Brienne over, a burst of fondness creeping over her when she sees the Knight bidding Podrick farewell. Podrick himself doesn’t look too ecstatic to seperate, but both respect Sansa’s reasoning. After they exchange a few more words Brienne strides to Sansa’s side, a place Sansa has begun to enjoy having her. 

 

“Than I shall see you tomorrow Theon. Brienne, let us take our leave.”

 

…

 

The ride to Castle Black seems to take mere minutes, when in reality she’s aware it’s been hours since they left their tiny campsite. As they approach she notices several men watching them curiously, gazes of both recognition and confusion fixated on her. Whispers run rampant and Sansa expects word of her approach will reach Jon well before she does. 

 

The place seems darker than she had imagined it, despite the name, the cold seeming somehow even more punishing. She sits tall, careful not to show weakness, but her heart races as she scans the passing faces, the shadows, searching desperately for a flash of dark curls and soulful eyes.

 

Men part easily for them, guiding them further into the castle, into what looks to be a training yard. They don’t speak to her directly, instead conversing lightly with Brienne, but she doesn’t even notice because halfway across the yard, she sees him.

 

Jon.

 

Finally.

 

Despite all her notions of decorum, before she truly realizes what she’s doing she’s running towards him,  and he sprints to meet her, his eyes alight in a way she’s never seen them. The two of them clash so hard they almost fall into the snow as they embrace, neither quite believing they have the other in their arms.  

 

“Sansa, Sansa we thought you dead. I am so happy to see you.” Jon mutters to her and she holds him tighter, thankful for the words (she knows Jon was never fond of expressing himself verbally). She can feel her tears running down her cheeks, the touch of them turning icy as soon as the chill hits her face. 

 

“I’m so glad to see you too Jon. God I thought I was the last for awhile, thought I’d get here and you’d be dead too.” She whispers so only he can hear, though she suspects everyone else has taken a respectful distance. Sansa doesn’t expect however Jon to suddenly pull back at the words,  his eyes wide as he gasps.

 

“Sansa come with me, now, there’s something you must see.” The words are almost desperate, and he says them with such urgency she doesn’t even think to question it when he grabs her hand, dragging her behind him.

 

Sansa doesn’t really pay attention to where he’s taking her (even if she should, the paranoid part of her mind insists) choosing to blindly trust her brother, to have faith in him, if she can’t have faith in anyone else yet. 

 

“Jon what is it? Where are we going?” 

 

She question him as he pulls her along, but he stays silent (she shouldn’t be surprised at that really) as he guides her to a small door, strangely far from the rest of the Castle. Could it be his room? She supposes they do need to talk in private although she doesn’t know why Jon would show such vagueness for that.

 

All questions vanish from her mind however as Jon pushes open the door to reveal a scruffy, shocked looking man staring up at her from the edge of the bed. His hair is longer, his face wearier than she saw him last, his eyes ages older but there’s no mistaking it.

 

Robb.

 

Robb’s alive.  

  
  
  
  



End file.
